Harry Potter and the Lies of Dumbledore
by rexymandias
Summary: As Harry enters his sixth year in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Voldemort amasses his army, the Order of the Phoenix and the DA prepare for war, and Draco has become a Death Eater. But despite all of this war and evil looming around every corridor of the school, Harry discovers a terrible truth. He uncovers the lies of Albus Dumbledore.
1. Chapter 1

**uploading this story on a whim...**

**it was a one-shot i wrote before the theatrical release of fantastic beasts. **

**i figured i'd turn it into a proper story and see where it goes.**

**this story take place in Harry's sixth year (half blood prince)**

**hope you guys and girls enjoy.**

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HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE

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CHAPTER ONE:

* * *

"GRINDELWALD"

* * *

_A pensive stare is all it takes. _

_A Pensieve is the path to introspection and the truest enlightenment. _

_Cloudbursts of smoke and recollection toll high. _

_Cloaks a-swirl in the moonlit, rain-pattered wind and Earth. _

_Harry dug through His secrets; one by one. _

_Surprise hit him. He heard something. _

_What was that? Say it again…_

_…he listened close…_

_…and then he heard it—_

_"Won't we all die, just a little?"_

* * *

**GELLERT GRINDELWALD'S DIARY**

* * *

_(compiled by the British National Magical Historian;_

_chronologically inserted by the British Ministry of Magic_

_& stored within the memories of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore)_

* * *

**SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1945**

* * *

Death was complete; a totality; an eventuality. But just a little—_not too much_—would we die? Could we? Just enough to brush against our souls; enough to remind us of how much we want to live.

To know that life could be so delicate, and to feel death's grip tight around our throats, wringing out all the hope—_this_ much death would do—_don't forget to take it in moderation. _

Let grief of survival overwhelm you, and feel how much you don't matter. Specks of dust to the Gods in the Heavens above. This kind of death went against their every law. But why let them dictate the rules? Why let them rule above our kind? So reject it. Defy the rules, break the laws, rewrite their fates, and mark their epitaphs.

'The Gods Above.' This was an assumption of great length, considering the supportive logic implemented thankfulness as its source inspiration. "Thank you for the gift of magic!" And who could know that we were granted what we are? No one.

I've spent my life overcoming the limitations of existence. I've aged to overthrow transcendence and simply become.

This is the guide—_my guide_—to the creation of what I will refer to hereafter as a _Horcrux_.

My name is Gellert Grindelwald. I am a man. That was the one label I could not escape. I do not wish to be known as a wizard, nor as the man who sparked a great war; I wish to be recognized as a man. I have faults, I am not perfect. But—this is _my_ story, and I will tell it the way it was lived. It is time for us to acknowledge that we owe our partners—_Life_—the courtesy of being told.

Let us be remembered for who we died as, and nothing more. Lest we be Bastards, we shall remain quiet and allow life's will to translate those moments so dear to our hearts our minds dare not tear apart its' strings.

This is the tale of life and its part in the _death_ of I, Gellert Grindelwald…

* * *

_More cloudbursts. Further recollections. Harry felt like he was pushing against heavy wind._

* * *

"_The greater good_, you see?"

"Albus! We've done it! _The greater good!_"

Two men worked voraciously, hungry for knowledge, devouring the tales and history of their ancestors with vigour. _Slow down or you'll choke. _

They worked in what appeared to be an ill-maintained bedroom. It was the only option for an office, Albus had a family—responsibilities and such. Gellert didn't protest. It was rare to find such an opportune connection. The greater good, what a beautiful conception—_what an immaculate kind._

"And of course, Minister for Magic: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! A great and wise young man. Who would've thought? Taken the ministry by storm! Magic beyond his years, and many years beyond his seniors."

Albus chuckled. "Gellert—we would be wise to slow down, my friend. Such excitement is the seed of arrogance preparing to bloom."

"Bahh! Albus, think nothing of it. I'm allowed a few hysterics for a man as important as your are to me."

"You make me blush, friend. I'm flattered, truly. And to think, I'd planned an adventurous escapade around the world. Would've been borne without fruit, and I would have been effortlessly relenting labours unknown to me."

The young men practically danced around the room. _Ah, the bright and fruitful vigour of young love._

* * *

_Harry pushed further…_

* * *

"Gellert, please, listen to reason, I beg of you." Dumbledore pleaded with his oldest friend and his dearest lover.

"The time for reason has long passed, Albus." Grindelwald held a painful look upon his face. He dreaded this eventuality—_a duel of fates_.

"Then it must come down to this after all. Is that all we have left? You are still my friend, Gellert."

"I'm afraid this is all that is left. It must indeed, come down to this." Grindelwald feared for his friend—he held the Elder Wand after all—and his quest would lead him down a path drenched with the violence of destiny.

"Gellert…please…"

Grindelwald responded deftly—a simple flick of his wrist, out slipped his wand; bumpy and rough-hewn, there lay the Elder Wand within the grips of a man driven by misery…and quite sincerely by desperation.

A sharp spark of jet-blue light struck the corner of earth where Albus Dumbledore stood. He did not flinch.

"Wand at the ready, Albus."

Dumbledore unsheathed his wand—hidden behind the cuff of his right sleeve—and gripped it loosely within his fingertips. It was a smooth, almost discoloured wand-make. It bore no markings of clarity, yet it felt deeply imbued by an ethereal flame; the invisible forges of the magical ability.

"Gellert—"

No more words, no more talk. Grindelwald shot a barrage of spells, quick as lightning.

Dumbledore masterfully retaliated. He raised his wand-tip, capturing and casting out every spell. He moved not an inch, nor swayed for even a moment.

_Attack_.

Grindelwald had no other choice but to oppose this mode of strategy from Dumbledore. The tables had indeed turned. Perhaps it would've been a wise decision to have heeded the words of his old friend. Grindelwald blocked spell after spell. Dodging and repelling at the very behest of his magical instinct.

The two swapped between the defence versus offence respectively. It was a battle of wits and stamina. Not a single utterance was muttered between the two of them—not a single spell spoken, nor a single breath taken. Their very wills executed their magic. Their intent morphing and strengthening their spells, moulding their evolutionary transformative effects as they shot through the air. Simple sparks and bolts held the weight of immense darkness and light; total power and complete destruction.

Neither duelist felt the knock of irritation, nor did they feel the urge to hasten this battle. Patience was their elected excuse, their intents spoke the truth; this was to clear away the debt—to settle and move on. _Neither could live while the other survived. _

But what if neither wanted to survive?

_Seconds became minutes, minutes became seconds; every moment—every spell—all of the intent, their wills, it all contained them within the hourglass. Every grain of sand lost dictated their sentence…this was the end._

Both men looked unchanged on the outside, but felt hollowed within. All magic expired, every spell tried and tested. In the end, as funny as it is—and just as unfair—his luck struck at the right time.

_Death's keeper prevailed, truly and justly._

"Avada Kedavra!—"

"—Avada Kedavra!"

Both men uttered the same spell. Their very first words since the start of battle, and their words bore death by their very definition.

_Death be to the king._ The king be that who wishes for prevalence. Because the true king was not among either. A true king bore courage in their bones, love in their hearts, trust in their beings, and forgiveness in their words.

Language will no longer be a barrier the day _the boy lives._ Nothing will save those false Gods. No tricks, no mind-reading, no potions, just truth and bravery and forgiveness would spark the beginning. The ultimate spell of creation.

Their spells connected. Blazing lights danced; the radiance blinded the earth surrounding them. Forestry eroded and crumbled, everything living decayed by the light of this frenzy. The darkest light, shone brightest and deepest.

From green to red to blue, it was a show of art—sparks and jitters and flickers of instability fizzled and burst out of the beam of magic.

_And then it happened…Priori Incantatem._

A cloudburst of light showered around the pair. They were encased within its warmth and soul, levitated, lifted beyond this earth and carried to the further.

Something amazing was happening. What forged this bond—this deep connection—between these two wands? Or perhaps had the wizards chosen for the first time? The wand didn't always choose, sometimes it settled, sometimes it relegated for the sake of the _greater good_.

Grindelwald felt it happen before it even physically materialized into a formation that would become the key moment in a timeline unbroken by its laws, yet.

The Elder Wand escaped his grip. It simply no longer rested in those hands anymore. Dumbledore himself appeared surprised. It rested within his free hand. He raised it and flashed guilt and regret, then buried that regret—adorned his face with a mask of resolve.

He pointed the wand straight towards Grindelwald. This would end the connection too. He mouthed a few words…a spell shot out (what did he say?)

It was no spell. A jet of red light struck Grindelwald square in his chest. Simultaneously, his neck gave, his head slumped, his body slacked—the spell broke, _Priori Incantatem_—they fell downwards, earthbound.

"Arresto Momentum…"

They both stopped inches away from a brutal fall. Dumbledore's mind flashed through the scenario once more—time rewinded for him—he wished to fall again and experience the impact, and embrace death. Then cowardice overtook him once more.

As Grindelwald lie unconscious, Albus bound him in chains of fire—they licked his body, dissipating into nothing and reforming where they were first bound.

Dumbledore fell to his knees, tears escaped his eyes. He shuddered and wept for a moment. His cloak blanketed his body in a cask of darkness. He observed the Elder Wand resting within his fingers, he rolled it around for a moment. Raised it towards his head, felt a courage unknown to him…

…_threatened to_ _pull the trigger_—

* * *

"—That's enough, Harry. Please—I would prefer my memories remain where I prefer them…in the basin of my pensieve."

Harry Potter jerked out of the ghostly waters filling the pensieve basin. Caught red-handed.

Albus Dumbledore held the faintest ghosts of what appeared to be a smile of the utmost morbid kind. He urged Harry away from the pensieve. He didn't budge.

"Please…" A weak plea from a worn old-man.

Harry felt sweat run down the side of his temples, down his neck. He felt shocked. He felt a great many things, honestly speaking. He couldn't contain them all…so he ran. Dumbledore watched with a somber expression as Harry sprinted frantically out the door. It slammed with a mighty _THUD_ and _SNAP_ setting the lock in place and ensuring the old man a newly desired privacy.

Dumbledore approached the basin of his pensieve and saw a ghost of himself swimming around in clouds and dust deep inside, beneath its ink shores. He turned around and stared at the spot Harry had run out.

The boy had dropped a bowl of licorice snaps on the floor in his hurry. The tiny, black beads of candy hopped and skittered all across the room—_eat me_—they yelled at Dumbledore.


	2. Chapter 2

HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE

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CHAPTER TWO:

* * *

"DUMBLEDORE"

* * *

Dumbledore sat pensively behind his desk admiring the ponderous depths of his pensieve. The liquorice snaps still frilled about upon the bedrock of his office floor. They still yelled at him—_eat me, eat me_—he still ignored them. He observed silently and distantly. He thought about how his thoughts were often of the dangerous kind; he thought about why. He thought about how his memories were his vulnerability, if one were to have access to even a modicum he would feel threatened.

He had many secrets locked away inside of that pensieve, hidden away amongst cabinets upon cabinets; vials and vials and endless vials of silken memory. Some his. Some belonging to others.

One such memory he owned that was not his to claim was that of a young child—a weak and feeble year old baby—as he watches as his parents are slaughtered before his very eyes.

This memory belonged to Harry Potter.

Harry was not aware of this fact.

Dumbledore took no pleasure in obtaining his memory, it was a necessary action, he needed to know for sure that it was Voldemort. He needed to see into his long, lost students' eyes one last time and know, nothing can change and that the world is lost in Tom Riddle's scuttle to the tip-top of it. By the time he would become the so-called ruler and King, nothing would be left but ashes to rest his weary head upon. And then what would he have accomplished _mastering Death?_

Dumbledore pinched his brow. He pulled his half-moon spectacles off the brim of his nose and set them deftly on a stack of books upon his desk. It was a rare sight. It almost made the man look older. His eyes were always wrinkled. He looked tired. He inhaled the scent of the room. Harry's musky deodorant and the smell of burnt leaves—the fallen kind, the ones that blanketed the path of their forests in the Hogwarts grounds—it was Fawkes' scent.

He wondered where that poor old bird had disappeared to. He missed the loyal creature. It was his only truth-bearer. His only confidant. The only _thing_ he could entrust with something like the truth.

Fawkes appeared in a swirl of flames. The flames licked the air teasingly. The immortal phoenix trilled it's song. It soothed his soul. It made him feel peace was an achievable concept. It put him into a relaxed state of relief and calm. He huffed deep breaths and caressed the creature's beak and feathers layered ever so perfectly upon it's head.

He stared at the hand he caressed Fawkes with. It was black as night. It was decaying. Skin peeled away unfashionably. It was disgusting to examine this close. A few drops of water fell on his fingertips. He turned his gaze upwards—_Fawkes. Oh, you dear old friend, it won't work. Not on this, I'm afraid. _

The bird trilled.

_That's alright, I've been through worse._

He winked at the bird. It winked back. He smiled.

Dumbledore turned his gaze back towards his hand, then to the desk before him. A mutilated diary laid ruined upon his desktop. The diary belonged to Tom Riddle. It screamed dark magic. There was a tear through the middle of the dark book—like a stab wound—_the night Harry slew the basilisk._ Harry Potter had been the first to destroy a piece of what tethered Lord Voldemort to this world.

Dumbledore reached inside. He fiddled around with something. Pulled it out, _slowly, carefully—there!_

A thin ring with a thick, bloody gem sat pinched tightly between his fingers. He examined the tiny instrument that had caused his arm its current state of decay. He _tinged_ it with his free hand. It shrilled a sharp, metal clang. It hurt his ears. The gem in the middle was cracked to it's core. He stared into the depths of the fissure, saw something—_someone_—looking back!

Tom Marvolo Riddle flashed before his very eyes. He witnessed the transformation of a boy into a monster. He saw the night Lord Voldemort had killed what was left of the Riddle family—_his family_—and how he so cleverly covered his tracks, pinning the murder on a creature (a product of incest) that was too dumb to understand what had just taken place. And then he'd taken care of the dumb creature too.

Screams marred his ears, they tore his soul to pieces for daring to peek into the depths of Lord Voldemort, the One Who Is Heartless; The One Who Is Merciful & The One Who Cannot Die.

Dumbledore pulled back, he returned from the depths of the fissure and found himself wearing the ring on his good hand's ring-finger.

_Even in death, you wish me harm. How truly evil of you, Lord Voldemort._

Dumbledore tugged the ring off his finger and dumped the it back into the mutilated crevice of Tom Riddle's diary. He then picked up the diary, opened a drawer—somewhere on the bottom of his desk—and dropped both items into its depths satisfactorily. He slammed the door shut and thought, _good riddance_. But the job wasn't even half done. According to his research and his rather psychic intuition, the lucky number was indeed _seven_.

Dumbledore arose from his seat and approached the pensieve. He peered into it. He saw silk-like ghosts—made of fabric and not skin—swim through the bowl's massive valleys of nothingness. He conjured up the exact memories Harry had plunged into on accident—_poor boy._

Gellert Grindelwald stood inches from his face. His eyes were filled with _smoke_ and _red_. Dumbledore knew something was different. Dumbledore had chosen to ignore it on that day. That was the day he could have changed the entire world, were he not so indebted to and owned by the power of love. His love for Grindelwald had blinded him and allowed him to overlook the evil he knew to exist not only deep down, but at the very brim of the young man.

Dumbledore _should have_ done something. He shouldn't have ignored it. He felt rut. He felt a hate towards himself. He felt a tear running down his cheek and he didn't bother to stop it.

It wasn't often he sat down with his old friend like this.

Harry Potter was not a coincidence. Probability encompassed even the spectacle of magic.

Harry Potter is the reason Albus Dumbledore still fights. Harry Potter is the reason Albus Dumbledore lives. Without Harry Potter, there can be no Chosen One—_He is the One_.

Dumbledore plucked at another memory, it was swimming faster than all the others, this one.

_Horcrux_.

Dumbledore felt his spine shiver and his brain tingle in the worst possible way. His hands trembled and he swallowed fear—buried it deep down.

Lord Voldemort flashed in his mind. Gellert Grindelwald did too.

_Arianna_…

Dumbledore swung his head out from within the seemingly dangerous depths of the pensieve. He took a few drunken, staggered steps, towards a short set of stairs by his desk. He collapsed on the bottom stair and held his head in his hands. He was much too old for all this. He was much too tired of keeping all of these secrets.

There were many days Dumbledore thought of strolling down to Hogsmeade, rapping on old Abe's door, and having a cold one while they shot the shit and talked about nothing at all.

Dumbledore, in some ways, had still not allowed himself closure about Arianna. The death of his sister had traumatized him in a way he never acknowledged.

He quenched the beast known as Fear that rested deep inside his belly, awaiting a weak moment. Because of it, he never really stopped fighting. It was _full_ for now.

He needed to speak with Severus.

Dumbledore gathered himself. He took off from the steps, blitzed through the door faster than you could say _gonzo_. He glided through corridor after corridor, blazing through the hallways and staircases faster than you could say _I solemnly swear I'm up to no good_. He knew this school and almost every secret hidden away inside it. _Almost_.

Dumbledore reached the dungeons rather quickly. He'd left his spectacles behind in his office, they still rested upon that neat stack of books upon his desktop. He didn't need them right now anyways. Dumbledore grasped the large, metal, snakehead-door knocker and rapped the door a few taps—_loud, succinct—pithy_.

Severus Snape opened the door. A fourth-year Slytherin snuck out through the open space—

_FREEDOM!_

Dumbledore observed the student's 'escape' with amusement. He gave Snape a look. Snape had a deadpan expression on his face. He always seemed so sullen. _Lighten up, Snivellus._

Snape jerked his head at Dumbledore, inviting him in. Dumbledore accepted the invitation.

Snape's personal quarters slash office slash torture chamber was quite the sight. One might even argue that it could go down in history. Under what category and for what reason, well, no one can say with certainty—_yet_.

Snape took a seat behind his desk, he waved a hand to Dumbledore's chair. It slid towards the old man. Dumbledore nodded his head in thanks and took his seat. Dumbledore said, "You weren't busy were you, Severus? I'd hate to intrude." The old man held an amused expression on his face the whole time he said it. Snape knew he was pulling his leg.

"Not at all, Headmaster. Not. At. All." _Terse. To the point. _"What can I do for you tonight? I presume it has nothing to do with my deduction of 30 points from Gryffindor House—

"30 points? Heavens no, Severus," Dumbledore interjected. "Who did you get this time?"

"Ronald Weasley…and Harry Potter."

Dumbledore smiled, shut his eyes, and said, "What for?"

"_Lack of application in the classroom_," said Snape rather pithily. Dumbledore nodded.

"Well anyways, the reason I'm here is quite different altogether, although I would recommend a more relaxed approach to students—but alas—I'm here tonight regarding the case of my constantly decaying—and rapidly no less—hand."

Snape's eyes jutted to Dumbledore's arm. The old man'd already rolled his sleeve up to his elbow, allowing full view of the bbq'd arm. "Yes, of course," he said.

Snape immediately got up and began searching through drawers and cabinets, retrieving an odd vial or an ingredient here and there. He proceeded to his cauldron and began brewing his concoction of ingredients—_mama's special recipe_.

Dumbledore watched the man in his element. Snape was a master when it came to potions and anything and everything relating to the dark arts. He remembered when Snape was merely a boy. He'd told him once that he was the "Half-Blood Prince." He had never discouraged the boy from revelling in his half-blood ancestry. In fact, Dumbledore appreciated the pride and optimism the boy had found in his name; especially not expecting the boy to be capable of it to begin with.

Soon, Snape returned with a piping hot cup. The cup was made of a smooth stone. Steam rolled off in mirage-like waves, dissipating into thin air—_like the ghosts in the pensieve_, Dumbledore thought. He held the drink to Dumbledore's mouth and poured it in slow. Dumbledore guided his hand out of instinct. Despite his age, Dumbledore was not in anybody's care but his own.

_Sear. _

_Burn_.

It was hot. Dumbledore smelled Snape's breath mix in with the taste of the potion. Hot breath. Burning his throat. Cinnamon. Peat. Like scotch. Cherry. Like Brandy. Sweet. Boiling hot again. He felt like there was a furnace blazing away somewhere in the back of his throat. _Allllllmooooossst theeeeeerreeeee…aaaaaannnndddddd—done!_

Dumbledore was in a fit of coughs, bent over, doubling down at his knees as he caught his breath. _It never gets easier; never tastes any better, yuck_. Snape returned the cup to its rightful place and returned to Dumbledore's side. He caressed the old man's back as he ran through his fit.

"The pain will subside. Everything will be fine. You. Are. Fine. Albus," he said. Dumbledore looked at him appreciatively.

"T-t-thank y-you—S-s-Severus."

Snape gave a look that said _don't speak_ before he left Dumbledore's side. When he returned he held a handful of something—_candy_. _Magical candy_. It squirmed in his grip. He didn't budge. He held his closed hand closer to Dumbledore. "I did a little bit of research. This should help soothe your nausea and the constant burning sensation, and it should also quell the nasty aftertaste that came along with the potion. Just make sure you don't eat too many."

Dumbledore nodded and looked at Snape's hand. He opened his grip.

They were fucking liquorice snaps.

* * *

**CHAPTER END.**

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter: - "Harry & Hermione" - **


	3. Chapter 3

"HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE"

* * *

CHAPTER THREE:

* * *

"HARRY & HERMIONE"

* * *

Harry stumbled into the Gryffindor Common Room. His school uniform clung to his sweat-ridden body. He had ran the full steps up at breakneck speed for no reason at all. Nobody was chasing him. He couldn't get the image of the ghost of Grindelwald out of his head. He couldn't blink away the sight of Professor Dumbledore—the bravest man he knew—hopeless and regretful and ridden with guilt.

He couldn't even reach his bunk. He collapsed on the nearest couch. Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody except Hermione. He felt her eyes rove over him, scanning him for any anomalies or abnormalities, probably due to the fact that he looked like he had just run a marathon in a minute. She waited still, biding her time to approach exactly when the moment was _right_.

Harry sat on the couch and managed to finally catch his breath. He compartmentalized the whole night's excursion and found himself to be guilty too. Those were not his memories to peek in on. They belonged to Dumbledore. And Dumbledore had always been respectful of his privacy; the least he could've done was honour that courtesy both ways. But he didn't, and now here he sat, with his arms limp and by his side, sweat trickling down his nose and drying up on the bridge of his glasses. He sat there upon that couch either a _naughty boy_ or a _guilty man_.

That was the moment Hermione chose to literally pounce upon the cushion of the love seat Harry occupied and scare the magic out of him.

"Holy—Hermione! Take it a little easy on the landing there! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Hermione giggled cutely and said, "Sorry, Harry. Totally didn't mean to do that." He gave her an about-face that made her giggle even more. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I really did startle you though, didn't I?"

He nodded _obviously_. She playfully nudged his arm. Then an awkward silence sort of settled between them. They cleared their throats _ahem _and shuffled. Hermione sensed a storm in Harry's mind. She put her hand on his in a show of comfort. He flinched. She pulled back. Now she was _really_ concerned (and apologetically even a little curious).

First, she tried with the _what's wrong_ expression. No luck. She tried the direct approach: "I'm not your best friend for nothing, Harry. Tell me what's wrong?" He shook his head _nothing_. She said, "Weren't you supposed to meet with Professor Dumbledore this evening? How did that go? Lucky you, huh, getting private lessons from the greatest sorcerer alive."

She tried to butter him with a few cheeky compliments to no avail. He had retreated so far into his mind that her words merely filtered in through one ear and out through the other.

Hermione leaned into the boy and rested her head on his shoulder. She let out a sigh and shut her eyes. It was a simple gesture that meant _we don't have to talk_. Harry appreciated it.

He brushed his hair on her face affectionately. She blubbered his feathers out of her mouth and roared with laughter.

In between giggles: "H-H-harry! S-st-stoP t-Tha-at—i-it t-t-ick-les! hahaHaHaHAHA!"

Harry smiled contently and pulled away. He felt settled. He felt peaceful. Much better than the storm of Dumbledore's thoughts in his head. That was a place he hoped never to visit again.

Harry always shared everything with Hermione. He never hid anything. It was just like that. It was that way since the beginning of their friendship. And he'd never felt the need to hide. So what the hell—

"Hey, Hermione," Harry whispered absently. She _hmm'd_. He didn't know how to phrase it or where to start from so he just said what was on his mind—and it was really more of a question—"Have you ever heard of Gellert Grindelwald?"

Hermione gave Harry a curious look, probably because of the oddity (slash randomness) of his question. She nodded and said, "He's a dark wizard—probably the darkest wizard there was before You-Know-Who showed up to take that crown."

Harry shifted himself, sat straighter and looked seriously at Hermione. She sat up and stared at him. Her face asked _what. _He waited for her to say something.

"He sparked the second world war between man and wizard-kind. Believe it or not Professor Dumbledore himself was the one to stop him…" She rambled. She stopped. She stared at Harry again. She asked, "Harry—why are you asking about Gellert Grindelwald?"

At that precise moment, Ron Weasley walked in on them—and more specifically, the sight of them sitting cozily together; their faces were mere inches away from, what would appear to any old passerby, an impending kiss.

Ron wasn't just any old passerby though was he?

_Am I?_

Stares were exchanged. _Harry noticed that Hermione noticed that Ron had noticed the two of them noticing him noticing the two of them._

There was an awkward silence.

All three laughed unceremoniously.

(ooooo it was awkward)

Ron forced the two apart and sat between them. He crossed one leg over the other, dashing his shoe on Hermione's knee as he did so.

"Ouch, Ronald!"

"Oops—sorry, Hermione."

Ron leaned back and swung both his arms across the length of the love seat; all of a sudden the chair began to feel a little too cozy for Harry and Hermione.

Harry leaned forward and stood up from his seat. He looked down at Ron and Hermione and gestured an adieu. "I'll be off then."

"_Off?_ Where?" Hermione asked. "Ron only just got here, Harry." She said it because she didn't much feel like being left alone in the boy's company. She found more entertainment out of Divination class than she did with Ron Weasley, and that was saying something.

"Off to, ehm…the library?"

"Really? The library?"

Ron interjected with a, "What's gone wrong with you, mate? The library? I think you've been spending too much time with Hermione."

Ron chuckled at his own joke. Hermione deadpanned. Harry was peer-pressured into an awkward laugh at the non-joke—it came out a chuff, like a train (take me away o hoggywarts express).

"Yeah—just doing some research about some _things_."

Hermione gave him a dubious look. He ignored the question in her expression. She didn't press.

"Well, alright, mate—good luck to 'ya. I've never found an inkling of happiness in that place," Ron said sullenly.

Harry smiled weakly at his friend. His eyes were glued to Hermione. She reciprocated. There was silence, then—

"Later."

Harry left them, wanting to say everything he was thinking but choosing not to. He had just kept his very first secret from Ron and Hermione. It gave him mixed feelings. He supposed, _This must be how Dumbledore feels._

* * *

CHAPTER END.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys are enjoying. **

**Drop a review and let me know what you all think will happen next.**


	4. Chapter 4

HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE

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CHAPTER FOUR:

* * *

"HARRY/DUMBLEDORE, THE PENSIEVE & ILLUMINATING DARK PLACES"

* * *

Harry sat within the confines of the Hogwarts Library. The walls were tall. They felt like cages to him. The whole place was a maze. It was an odd prison and Harry felt like it's sole prisoner. He'd spent the past three hours searching through history books and old magi-cords. His research subject: Gellert Grindelwald. _AKA The Man Who Stole Dumbledore's Heart_.

It was strange to hear his voice. It was different on the magi-cord. A memory sounds like trying to listen to someone talk while you're drowning. Magi-cord's were crisper than bacon.

Grindelwald's voice scraped gravel. It was scarier than Dumbledore's. It was just as charming.

Harry listened to magically inserted chronologies of Grindelwald's movement and his philosophies. The man in concept felt scarier than Lord Voldemort. Voldemort was a boy compared to Grindelwald. He was just plain old Tom Riddle. And Harry was the _boy who lived_.

There wasn't an enormous amount of information on him. Harry wondered if that was Dumbledore's doing. He wondered if the headmaster ever took to meddling in the school that way. He stopped himself from wondering; he rejected the possibility of second-guessing Dumbledore.

All that was in the library were iterations and reiterations of varied accounts of the life and times of Gellert Grindelwald; His beginnings; His ends; His ideologies; His rule; His movement. He was like the magical fucking Hitler. He was savage. Gellert Grindelwald could only be described by one adjective: _Brutal_.

A magi-cord got stuck on a loop. Harry hammered the device. No luck. He threw it into the air. Something magic caught it mid-air and transported it back to its rightful place. It whined all the way.

"_Will we die…just a little…_"

* * *

Harry in the Hogwarts Library. Harry in the Restricted Section. Harry finds _zilch_. Harry's gonna throw a book _you know where_.

Harry found himself tired and quite frankly, frustrated. _I'm about to punch a book_. That's how frustrated. He cleared the desk of its contents. Everything floated back to their rightful places. He stood up and left. He didn't bother tucking in his chair. He left in a rush.

He's back in the Griffyndor Common Room Proper now. Fireplace a-roar. Warm seats—_Ahhhh_. It's near evening. He broke into the pensieve early morning. Griffyndor students bustle about in the Common Room. They are interspersed randomly throughout the large room. Neville Longbottom attempts to understand the elusive game of Wizards-Chess; Seamus Finnigan is his teacher. Seamus is happy to finally be winning at a game he has been touted to be the worst at. Ron and Lavender sit cozily in the far corner, beside a few desks; they snog serendipitously. Dean Thomas and Ginny Weasley are amiss. They are more than likely at their secret meeting place and also snogging; they are a surreptitious couple.

Harry spots Hermione sitting alone on the trio's love-seat. She clearly sees Ron and Lavender snogging. She is clearly repulsed. Harry plops down on the couch beside her. "Hiya."

Hermione gives him the cold shoulder. Understandable.

Harry said, "You know, I don't understand why you're so bothered by Ron and Lavender." Sure he did. He just wanted to elicit some form of response from her. _No such luck. _

She knows he's keeping something from her. He wonders if she's angry because he kept it from her and Ron, or just plain _her_.

"I broke into Dumbledore's pensieve."

Hermione flashed shocked. Hermione blubbered. "Y-y-you d-did w-what now!?"

Harry smirked stupidly. He scratched the back of his head and said, "I broke into Professor Dumbledore's pensieve."

Hermione processed his statement with astuteness. She broke it down in her head. What he was saying earlier—asking about Grindelwald— "Harry. _Grindelwald?_"

Harry nodded and _Yep'd_. She facepalmed.

"You broke into Professor Dumbledore's pensieve and looked at his private memories?"

Harry said, "You're doing well." Hermione slapped him on the shoulder.

"Well?"

"What do you mean, _well?_"

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "What else did you see?"

Harry snickered. "Merlin, Hermione, you're quite the gossip girl, aren't you." She slapped his shoulder again. He chuckled full-out now.

She whined, "_Harryyyyy_."

It worked.

Harry spilled. He told all. About Dumbledore's affair with Grindelwald. Dumbledore's duel against Grindelwald. Their Priori Incantatem. Dumbledore attempting suicide. He told it with as much detail as his memory of the memories recalled.

After the spilling of secrets, Harry and Hermione both fell silent. Hermione had a great range of thoughts ruminating deep inside. She started with the obvious—

"_Priori Incantatem_. Isn't that what—"

"Yep—me and Lord Voldemort share the same bond."

Hermione stroked her chin. "I've never heard of that kind of magic before."

Harry said, "Maybe it's something beyond magic."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. Everything obeys some law. Physical or magical. Either way. You can't break the natural laws of magic."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I have so many questions. I just wish I could ask Dumbledore. I'm actually rather embarrassed. He caught me red-handed. I literally fled his office. I wonder what he thinks of me now?"

Hermione slapped her forehead. "_Harryyy_. You're adorable. Professor Dumbledore would never think badly of you. Go back—_right now_—ask him whatever's on your mind."

Harry thought about it. "Okay. Thanks Hermione."

Hermione waved him off. "Harry. You don't have to say thank you, although I appreciate it. I would also appreciate it if you didn't hide things from me."

Harry nodded and said, "Okay. Fair enough."

They both sat in a comfortable silence for a short while. The gears in Harry's brain turned. He was nervous. His heart did somersaults as he thought of facing his old headmaster again. He recalled the memories one last time. An eerie feeling sat itself at the pit of his stomach. He had a bad feeling. He voiced his concern.

"Hermione."

"_Hmm_."

"I've got this bad feeling."

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I can't explain it. Just these memories. This whole thing. I feel like I screwed something up."

"I don't understand."

"It's like, I'm not supposed to know these things. _Not yet_. Or something. I don't know. Am I making any sense, Hermione."

Hermione looked at him and said, "None at all."

* * *

Harry found himself back where he started. Before he could knock on the old headmaster's door it hopped off its hinges and trailed off on its own to some corner of the large office. Harry entered.

There—Dumbledore, smiling, waiting. There—Fawkes, a pip—_He's so tiny_. There—Godric Griffyndor's sword. There—Tom Riddle's diary and a desirable ring. What is Dumbledore pondering? Why is he looking so intently at Harry?

"Ah—Harry, dear boy. Sit."

The chair sort of scooped Harry up before he could say _yes _or _no_. So it wasn't a question. Harry gripped the arm-rests as he came to a rest at the old man's desk. Was that fear? Maybe he just wasn't sure if Dumbledore would be able to hold the spell—

_Don't doubt, stupid boy_._ You know he could take you and a thousand other you's without ever lifting his wand._

"Have you had enough time? I presume _yes_ because you're here right now. I am not sure because I never believed much in presumptions, dear boy."

Harry spoke before he had time to doubt himself. He said, "I'm ready."

Dumbledore smiled sullenly and said, "Whatever for?"

"The truth, sir."

"Ah—yes, of course. The truth."

Harry watched the old man age rapidly in his seat. _Look_—brows wrinkling. _Look there_—frown-lines. _And there too_—crows-feet. "I can understand. Sir. I can. And I do, I _promise_."o

Dumbledore said, "Thank you for understanding, Harry. I know somewhere inside you must loathe me. And I don't blame you."

"Sir. I just want to know."

Dumbledore said, "Of course you do. It is only natural."

"Then tell me."

Pause.

Think.

What happens next?

Dumbledore—_Breathe_. "Why don't I show you instead."

A snap. The pensieve flew out of its basin and landed upon Dumbledore's desktop. He gestured towards the ovular transportive device. Harry's face was a ?-mark. Dumbledore chortled.

"Is this not how you fell upon the doorsteps of my mind? Would it not be fitting for you to finish the story just so?"

Harry hesitated. He nodded. He arose from his seat and leaned into the pensieve.

Dumbledore grabbed Harry's hand. Harry looked at the man. Dumbledore's eyes were fearful. The Thirst was alive inside him. This was his vulnerable moment.

"Please don't think too badly of me."

* * *

_SINK_.

* * *

Harry's Dumbledore now. He's three-and-a-half years old and levitating his knick-knacks. His father is both joyous and astounded; he is _terrified_. His mother is proud. Aberforth is cautious; he is a mere 8-and-a-half months.

Harry/Dumbledore is now watching his daughter explode. He sees his mother. Her name is—_Kendra_. She dies. She dies again and again and again. He sees her die again and again and again. He sees until he is numb to the sight. He sees further. Her charred ligaments and dismembered portions elicit the beginnings of Thought in him. He becomes a Brood and a Ponderer thereafter.

Harry/Dumbledore recalls his past in no specific order. No chronology to help guide the human mind across a flat line of time.

Harry/Dumbledore observes Percival Dumbledore. He is also a Brood and a Ponderer. He is this way because of his daughter. Her name is—_Arianna_.

Harry/Dumbledore watches Percival. He kills. Three muggles. They are vile. _Fuck 'em_. They are dirty rats. They deserve to bleed out into the gutter. _Fuck 'em twice_.

Harry/Dumbledore witnesses as his father is sent to Azkaban prison. He is scared. He realizes then, that he has been scared for all his life. He is a man driven by Thought and Fear and the Thought of Fear. He knows that he will spend the rest of his life quenching that thirst.

Harry/Dumbledore is now 18. He lays with a man—_Grindelwald._ They are naked. They are pure. They _fit_. There is warmth and magic in the air. Two lockets dangle from both their necks. There is a beautiful gem hidden inside it. It is a priceless thing. It's a _Blood Pact_.

Harry/Dumbledore. Now a Brood. A Ponderer. Now A Fearful Man. The Pact should've helped him decelerate. Instead, he is running full speed ahead into a brick wall. He thought Grindelwald and Love would save him from his adjectives. He was wrong.

Harry/Dumbledore. He feels everything in one fell swoop. He cries and laughs and cheers and rages. There is too much to know and too little time. He will do this again one day. But that day will be much later. He cannot stand to know himself so well.

He is a man of Fear after all.

* * *

_PULL_.

* * *

Harry tried pulling himself out. Something kept him in. His head swam breathlessly through the veil of the pensieve. Smoke got in his eyes. He couldn't see anything but blots of ink on paper. He saw shadows dance. _There_—_Look_. He saw from above. _Go_. He was instantly _there_.

Potter House. Dark. Nearly midnight. He's himself; he's Harry. He's at a ripe 15 months old. He can feel what's coming. What's about to happen? He felt it first, then he heard it—_Death's knock_.

_KNOCK KNOCK_.

That was a non sequitur. Lord Voldemort doesn't knock on doors. He owns the world.

Baby-Harry sees Lord Voldemort. He looks dangerous. He looks like a snake wearing human skin as clothing. He is cloaked but his aura dispenses hatred and his every footstep marks its place with an imprint of pure evil, replicated infinitely.

Baby-Harry sat frigid in his crib. The crib-bars were prison bars. He felt a tug back to the present, but it was the present/past where he'd felt like a prisoner elsewhere; it was the Hogwarts Library.

He's back in his crib. A woman shields him. His mother. _Lily Potter. Mom_.

_GREEN_.

Baby-Harry watches as his mother collapses. He sees Lord Voldemort. His wand is pointed outright, he jerks it in his direction. Baby-Harry does not flinch. He is not well-versed in controlling his muscle-movements quite yet. Lord Voldemort pauses. He stares at Baby-Harry. What is that in your eyes? Are you feeling merciful, oh Lordy Voldy?

_Not a fuckin' chance_.

_GREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNN!_

_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT AAAAHHHH FUUUUUUCKIIIIIINNN' CHHHHAAAAAANNNNNNCEEEEEE!_

Time stops. Colours like a rainbow. Reflections. Revelations. Life & Death. How could this happen?

Lord Voldemort stands there. He is affected. What is it, Voldy? Lord Voldemort staggers. He limps. He falls. His skin loosens. He becomes the snake he is and then that part of him also begins to peel away into the atmosphere. Every particle of him dissipates into weightless ash. He stares at Baby-Harry. _Intent_. He focuses all his _intent_ at the child. All that intent and a single particle of ash floats to a rest atop Harry's forehead.

Baby-Harry watches Lord Voldemort. He is crying. Baby-Harry can't stop the tears. He knows his mother and his father are dead and that Lord Voldemort is a bad man. He recognizes his orphan-hood. He sees _intent_ in the Evil-Man's eyes. It materializes into a particle of ash. It floats to a rest. Just as it touches his forehead—

_SCREEEEAAAM!_

_BANG! BURST! FLARE!_

_EMERALD LIGHT! _

_I CAN'T DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!_

Baby-Harry's forehead sears in pain. His insides hurt even more than his outsides. It feels like his head is on fire. He still sees Lord Voldemort through clenched eyelids. The last thing he sees before unconsciousness overwhelms his toddler-brain is the sight of Lord Voldemort disappearing completely into the atmosphere. The look on his cracked visage says _I'll be back_.

For some reason, now Baby-Harry doesn't feel afraid. His head isn't so much on fire anymore. He feels cool. He feels calm. Baby-Harry sees. In that moment, a piece of him becomes that what Dumbledore is. He is a Brood. He is a Ponderer. He is a Man of Fear. He has committed to what he did not choose. Lord Voldemort forced him into a Pact of their own.

What is the name of it?

* * *

"_Horcrux._"

Harry stumbled back to his seat in a heap. He felt out of breath. His head ached. His mind was a jumble and all he heard was a burble of nothingness spill out of Professor Dumbledore's mouth.

He mumbled a _Huh, what?_

Dumbledore said, "The name you wondered. It is called…a _Horcrux_."

* * *

CHAPTER END.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. Setting the stage for the major arc of the story. It helps that Harry Potter has such an enormous fanbase that I don't have to exposit every letter or detail. In this story, Dumbledore will take a leap of faith and put his trust in Harry. Grindelwald is indeed a big part of this story.**

** More soon. **

**Drop a review. Let me know where you think the story's headed. **

**Hope you all are enjoying!**


	5. Chapter 5

HARRY POTTER AND THE LIES OF DUMBLEDORE

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE:

* * *

"HORCRUX"

* * *

Harry's head ached. Dumbledore rubbed his back. He traced little infinities. His comfort was of no use. For the first time in his life, Harry felt _pisssssed_. He felt snakes all around him. _Fucking liars, all of them!_

Dumbledore could sense it. Anger rolled off of Harry in waves. Dumbledore knew this would happen. He knew it the night he stole Harry's memory from his infant-brain. Harry was not supposed to know any of this. Not _yet_.

Harry backed away from Dumbledore. He stared at the old headmaster with accusatory eyes.

"What's a _horcrux_?"

Dumbledore said, "It's a very dark piece of magic, Harry, the darkest of sorts."

Harry was pissed. He said, "Stop _fucking_ skirting around the question. _ALWAYS!_ Stop! Stop cowering and tell me!"

Dumbledore accepted Harry's anger. He allowed the boy to destroy his character.

"Harry, dear boy, you weren't meant to—"

"To what!? To _know_ all this?! I _knew it_! So this is the reason why?! Why last year you weren't talking to me!? Why last year I thought I was _seeing things_—like I could see the future?! When really all it was was Lord Voldemort playing with me! He _knows_ doesn't he?! Is that why I'm still alive?! Is that it _DUMBLEDORE!?_ All of you are planning out the exact moment I'm supposed to die?!"

Dumbledore said nothing. It enraged Harry further.

"Why won't you speak?!"

Dumbledore said, "Because everything you have to say should come first."

Harry paused. He took a few deep breaths. _In. Out_. "Professor, am I supposed to die?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not at all, my dear boy. Who said you should do that? Not I. Harry, your life is your own. If you choose to, you can abandon everything and leave these grounds this very second. You can run. You can hide. You can escape from the clutches of fate if you so choose to. But my only question to you, Harry, is how will you feel when you discover one of your friends obituaries posted on the front page of a newspaper. What will you do if one morning you wake up, turn on the telly, and hear about the massacres of Lord Voldemort; the revealing of magic to all mankind; the fear it will instil in all muggles? What will you do?"

Harry about-faced. He wiped tears. He punched stone walls. He stomped his feet. He threw a fit. He was pissed and he had every right to be. And Dumbledore had just acknowledged that very fact.

But the old man spoke some truth. Harry couldn't sit around and wait. Harry couldn't run away. He wasn't that kind of man—_What now? March to my own death?_

"Neither can live while the other survives…"

Dumbledore looked grim. "Indeed, my boy."

"But my connection to him. It anchors him to this world, doesn't it? I'm the reason he was able to come back all these times. And now he's _back_ for real."

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry sunk to the bottom of the stairs. Dumbledore sat down beside him. Harry looked at Dumbledore. The old man had tears welling up in his eyes.

Harry said, "How do I do it? How will I kill him?"

Dumbledore said, "Don't worry about that right now, Harry. Let's make you strong first. Stronger than Malfoy, stronger than Voldemort, stronger than Grindelwald, stronger than me—" Harry's eyebrows piqued. Dumbledore chuckled. "_Yes_, stronger than even me."

Harry said, "Professor, you made a pact with that Grindelwald. How did you break it?"

Dumbledore smiled weakly. "I died along with him."

Harry looked confusedly at him. Dumbledore ruffled Harry's hair. "That's a story for another time. It's late now. Off to bed."

Harry shook his head. "Professor, you've hidden too much from me for you to bid me off so quick. I want answers."

Dumbledore understood. He nodded his head and said, "Ask away, my boy."

Harry said, "Did you know my parents were going to be attacked?"

Dumbledore said, "Yes."

Harry said, "Did they know?"

Dumbledore said, "They knew of the possibility."

Harry went, _What does that mean?_

Dumbledore said, "You heard the prophecy, Harry. But that prophecy was not limited to you. You see, by choosing you, Lord Voldemort made you the Chosen One. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. "Then who was the other option?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "That matters not—"

"I ask the questions and you answer them. No ifs, no buts. No in-betweens. I want—_no_—I _deserve _to know the truth!"

Dumbledore chuckled weakly. "Alright. Neville Longbottom."

Harry flashed surprise. "Neville?!"

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed."

Harry said, "Why didn't you help my parents?"

Dumbledore frowned. "I did everything in my power to. In fact, there was someone else who did everything and _more_ in order to protect you, Harry."

_Who?_

"Severus Snape."

Harry was in disbelief. "He hates me!"

Dumbledore roared. "Not at all. He hates _your_ father. Often times I believe he mistakes your ill fate for your father's purposeful shenanigans. He had a penchant for rule-breaking, you see."

Harry melancholy-smiled. "I've heard. But that still doesn't explain it, Professor."

Dumbledore said, "That is his story to tell, Harry. You must ask him some day when the two of you are together."

Harry went, _Uhhhh, okay._

Dumbledore stretched. "Next question. I can see you're nowhere near done."

Harry said, "I only have one question, really, Professor."

Dumbledore went, _What's that?_

"What's a _Horcrux?_"

Dumbledore sighed. "Like I said, a very dark piece of magic—"

Harry nearly started again.

"Wait, wait, I'm not finished, Harry. It is a very dark piece of magic. And what it is, in essence, is using magic in order to split one's soul into a separate piece, or _pieces_."

Harry's jaw dropped. "T-then, t-t-that means?!"

Dumbledore nodded.

"So that's been our connection? This whole time? He can see into my head, I can speak parseltongue, the nightmares, everything?!"

Nods-all-around.

Harry got up and paced. He had a billion thoughts flying faster than a Firebolt in his head.

"How do I break the connection? Why haven't you broken the connection? Can I break the connection?"

Dumbledore stood up and paced alongside Harry. "Don't fret about it too much."

Harry snapped to Dumbledore _that _quick. "The darkest wizard alive has a free ticket to the freak show that is my life and you're telling me not to _fret?_"

Dumbledore sighed. "Will fretting over it relieve you of your destiny?"

Harry balled his fists. A firm head-shake, as in, _No_.

Dumbledore smiled. "Then don't fret."

Harry said, "Then what do you propose, "_Greatest Sorcerer of All Time?_'"

Dumbledore roared. "I haven't heard that one in a while, Harry."

Harry stank-eyed the old man. He waved his hand in surrender of his _look_.

Dumbledore said, "The piece of Voldemort's soul that's latched onto you so tightly cannot be shaken off. You see, for his soul to be broken, he must also be broken. Voldemort didn't just _make _you. He made a few other pieces."

Harry said, "Voldemort has other horcruxes?"  
Dumbledore said, "Yes. Indeed, he does. You see, Tom Riddle only ever sought for one thing in his entire life: Ownership over Death. That, which nobody has yet achieved, this young boy sought to."

Harry whispered it. "_Immortality…_"

Dumbledore said, "_Yes_."

Harry waited. He already knew it. He waited still.

Dumbledore weak-smiled. "You must destroy every other piece of his soul. And then—"

Harry said, "I have to die…"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

The _heat _of a thousand suns permeated Harry. He sweat. Trickle-down-I'm-shit-scared. He tug-tugged at his collar.

Dumbledore weak-smiled. "Forgive me, Harry. I wish I could spare you of your fate. I wish I had even the slightest power over fate. Yours, would be the first I'd change. You have my word about that."

Harry weak-nodded, then promptly—weaker-than-your-first-cigarette-toke—fell to the floor. Dumbledore caught him deftly. He sat him on the stair-steps and caressed his back.

"There, there, Harry. You're stronger than _that_."

Harry shed a single tear. He swallowed the rest then stood up with strength unknown to him. "I…"

Dumbledore stared in awe. "_What, _my boy?"

Harry stared through the old-man's spectacles. He peered beyond the horizon of half-moons and dove deep into weak-blue-oceans. He floated. He _held_.

Harry said, "I am the Chosen One. _This _is my fate. I will fulfill it."

Dumbledore proud-smiled. He wept a single tear. He went for it with his wand. _That's a memory to reminisce upon…later_.

Harry stopped his hand. Dumbledore didn't expect _that_.

Dumbledore q-eyed Harry like, _What?_

Harry said, "I will fulfill my destiny…and then…I want _out_."

Dumbledore said, "I don't quite understand, Harry?"

Harry said, "I will destroy everything. Every piece of his bloody soul. But that piece inside me…I don't want to die by his hand. When the time comes…_you_…I want _you _to do it, Professor Dumbledore. And then you can defeat Voldemort once and for all."

Dumbledore wept. "No, my boy, _please_, I beg of you—"

Harry touched foreheads with Dumbledore. "It is our burden, _Professor_…just say yes."

Dumbledore nodded. "_Yes_…"

Harry pulled the old man up. He pulled his sleeve back and held his hand out. Dumbledore understood. It was instant. The old man hesitated. He saw the look in Harry's eyes. It disabled the hesitation in his heart.

Dumbledore grasped Harry's hand. They entwined their fingertips 'round each other's forearms. They forged a bond, stronger than Dumbledore's Blood Pact with Gellert Grindelwald; and mightier than Voldemort's soul that thrived so deeply within the depths of Harry's _mind_.

They're arms glowed brighter than stars. They didn't flinch. They uttered it together.

"_The Unbreakable Vow_."


End file.
